


marked

by tsonis



Series: howl [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, M/M, Werewolf Jesse McCree, fareeha believes smart cars will save the world (and so do i), hanzo is slowly working out his feelings re: genji, lots of manly crying and broholding, mccree is also slowly cresting that hill of being O.K w being a giant furry, satya is the best girlfriend and friend in the entire world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 12:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11944659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsonis/pseuds/tsonis
Summary: “I cannot believe I am in love with an idiot,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face before slapping it over his mouth.McCree stares at him, the stack of pancakes he’s balancing on the edge of two knives wavering ever-so-slightly. “You what now?”





	marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyriumveins (Zelos)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lyriumveins+%28Zelos%29).



> i feel like we're nearing the end, but at the rate at which i churn these out it'll probably be another ~40 years til i can close this series off. as usual, yknow the drill (insert long apology for delay)
> 
> cws include: lots of Emotional Stuff, descriptions of imagined major character injury/death, and as always: we're swearwolves
> 
> read over by the all-powerful and all-seeing jamie and my rootin tootin no blanks shootin' buddy blee. blevedy forever!

From where he’s sitting, body pressed flush against McCree’s from his shoulder all the way down to his foot, he can’t help but wonder _how_ he got roped into it. _It_ being a double date with Angela and Fareeha, the latter of whom is drinking water to replenish the amount she’s sweating out.

“This is nice,” Angela says, voice soft and demure. She is so absorbed in the menu between her fingers she doesn’t seem to notice how Fareeha is sitting stock-still and wide-eyed beside her.

Jesse merely chuckles, fingers deftly picking open and disembowelling a bun from the basket of bread in front of him before tossing the crust at Fareeha. “Y’find anything you want to eat yet, Angie?”

She wrinkles her nose at the nickname and finally raises her eyes to look at him. Fareeha manages to collect herself and wrap an arm around the back of her chair, and lean over to peer at the small, tightly-packed text on the laminated sheet. 

“It says this dish has enough food for two,” she murmurs, finger trailing over the words. “Did you want to share it?”

Angela smiles, a shy, wisp of a thing—so much unlike the woman who had threatened him in her office that it catches him by surprise—and nods. “Of course, I’d love to.”

McCree scoffs before turning to him, hand squeezing his knee under the table. “Do you want to share a dish, darlin’?”

“No,” Hanzo doesn’t even hesitate in his response. 

“What d’you mean ‘no’?” He squawks. “It’s romantic!”

“It isn’t romantic when you eat over half of the dish,” Fareeha interrupts, ignoring the pointed look Angela shoots him.

“That happened once, and _months_ ago, might I add! Y’know I have a big appetite,” he mumbles, looking distinctly uncomfortable. 

“I know you love to eat,” Hanzo murmurs, barely suppressing the urge to pat Jesse’s stomach. “Which is why I suggest we go for the all you can eat option.”

McCree smiles, and leans over to press a sloppy, wet kiss against Hanzo’s cheek. “Knew you were the one.”

Across the table, Fareeha looks on with muted horror, and leans back in her chair. “I’ve lost my appetite, Angela. You should go for a single dish.”

“Fareeha,” Angela tuts, “just ignore them, that’s what I do.”

“That hurts me, angel,” McCree says, pretending to wipe away a tear below his eyes.

Angela grins, and beside her Fareeha is looking positively smitten. Hanzo can’t help the rush of warmth that runs through him when he catches McCree watching him with the exact same expression.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to come out tonight. 

\--

They’re idling at the security gate, all four crammed into Fareeha’s tiny excuse for a car. 

(“It’s environmentally friendly, Hanzo,” she had hissed, face red from embarrassment when he had remarked it looked more like a can of sardines than an actual car. “I need to care about the quality of air, considering I fly up high enough to inhale all the smog the others produce.”)

Fareeha’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, tapping along to whatever song is coming out of her radio, while Angela looks out the window at the attendant in the small booth checking over her credentials. 

Beside him, McCree has his face pressed against he cold glass of his passenger door window, breath puffing out slow and sure and fogging where it hits the glass; he presses his finger against the condensation collecting and slowly draws out a perfect spiral. 

McCree huffs a sigh and swipes his hand over the spiral, effectively erasing it before turning in his seat; it truly is a sight to behold, considering he is almost doubled over, by the time he is facing Hanzo he is red in the face and panting from exertion. 

“Next time we go out we’re taking my car.”

“Next time?” Hanzo asks, eyebrows rising to his hairline. “You assume there’ll be another one?”

For a moment, McCree looks panicked, before an unimpressed look settles over his features. “Not funny, Shimada. Y’bout gave me a heart attack.”

“You’ll live,” Hanzo shrugs, a small smile on his lips. McCree grunts, and undoes Hanzo’s seatbelt to tug him against him. Hanzo wiggles in his grasp before settling when he feels McCree’s forehead press against his shoulder.

“Everyone wears seatbelts in my car!” Fareeha shrieks from the front, reaching around to blindly slap at the space Hanzo was in before.

“We aren’t even moving.”

“Safety first!”

“Bite me, Fareeha,” McCree mutters, his words rumble against where he has shifted to have his lips pressed to the back of Hanzo’s neck. 

“Pretty sure you have Hanzo for that.”

“Fareeha,” Angela breathes, fingers pressing against her temples, “ _please_.”

Fareeha opens her mouth, but is saved by the sight of the attendant shoving papers through her window.

“Sorry for the delay, you may proceed,” the omnic trills.

“Thank you,” Fareeha offers, “have a, uh, nice night?”

“You too. Remember to buckle your seatbelts before driving.”

“Oh, we will.” The smugness in her voice has Angela giggling beside her. Hanzo can feel McCree’s scowl from where it’s pressed against him.

McCree lets him go without fuss, even going as far to help him fasten his seatbelt under Fareeha’s watchful gaze, she waits a beat before she eases the car forward into the underground parking.

“Where’s your parking space?” Angela asks, doing her best to fill the stifling silence.

“Oh, it’s A43 so we’re in for a bit of a walk back.”

“A43? You’re fairly close to mine, I’m at B1.” 

“Small world, huh?” 

“Very.”

Fareeha eases them into her parking space, and raises her window before shutting her car off. Beside him McCree has already thrown his door open and squeezed himself out to stretch his legs. Hanzo does the same, grunting when he hears his knee click at the sudden movement. 

Fareeha has sprinted around the car to help Angela out and shut the door behind her, and McCree watches with open amusement before closing the distance between them to knock their shoulders together. 

“Why don’t you open _my_ door like that?”

“You’re more than capable of opening a door,” Hanzo huffs.

“Doesn’t make it any less romantic.”

“I never pegged you as the type.”

“I’m like an onion, Hanzo, I have layers.”

“Do you want to come back to my room?” The words come out heavy and stilted, so out of place in their conversation that it makes Hanzo cringe.

“Your room?”

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to,” Hanzo feels disappointment settle in his gut like a heavy stone. 

“No, no, I _do_. I just haven’t really seen the inside of your place, usually we go to mine,” he trails off. “Take me. To your room, I mean.”

Hanzo nods, and turns on his heel so McCree can’t see the blush rising on his cheeks. Despite the dim, fluorescent light of the compound, he can tell by the tune McCree whistles that he has as he trails after him.

“Goodnight!” Fareeha yells after them. “Use protection!”

\--

It’s stupid, he thinks, hands shaking as he struggles to shove his key into the lock, to get this scared to bring McCree to his apartment. McCree stands behind him, leaning against the wall, watching as he struggles before finally getting the positioning right. He almost jerks his shoulder out of the socket as he twists it open.

McCree blessedly gives him space, letting him throw open the door and flick the lights on before following him and softly shutting the door. Hanzo tugs his shoes off, stepping onto the familiar hardwood of his floors, he’s slightly unnerved that Jesse has remained quiet the whole time—he wasn’t entirely sure the man could be silent at all, let alone for this long. 

“So, this is my place.”

“’s nice,” he murmurs, toeing off his own shoes before stepping onto the floor. “You okay?”

“Huh?” 

“Are you okay,” McCree asks slower, eyes narrowed.

“Yes. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem a little tense.”

“I’m not.”

McCree makes a noncommittal noise and runs a hand over his hair. “We don’t have to do this, y’know. We can go back to my place or see each other in the morning.”

“I know I don’t, I wanted to bring you here. I am just a little nervous, I guess.”

“Not used to inviting people over?”

“Something like that,” Hanzo says, refusing to meet his eye. He toys with the hem of his shirt instead. 

“Want to watch a movie? Promise to keep my hands to myself.”

When Hanzo doesn’t reply, he steps forward into his space and gently settles a finger under his chin to tilt his head up. Their eyes meet, and Hanzo’s water slightly at the level of vulnerability and fondness he sees in McCree’s. 

“Hanzo,” his voice is dangerously soft, “what d’you need from me?”

 _You_ , he thinks, _I love you_.

“I—I don’t know.”

McCree’s eyes search his features, and he nods—more to himself than Hanzo—before stepping back. “I think you need t’sleep. We can talk in the morning, okay? I’ll bring over some of my famous pancakes.”

Hanzo nods, not trusting himself to speak. 

“G’night, darlin’.”

He stands, watching as McCree bends to tugs his boots back on before leaving without so much as a backwards glance.

“Goodnight,” he says to open air. 

\--

“So… you just let him leave like that?” Sombra's voice is almost as harsh as her question, contrasted nicely by the way Satya has her fingers rubbing soothing circles into his scalp. 

“Why did you bring her again?” He moans, pressing his face against the soft fabric of her pajama pants.

“Because you called me at two in the morning and she followed me out of bed,” she murmurs.

“We’re kind of a package deal, y’know.” 

Satya hums her agreement.

“But, seriously, you let him leave like that? Jeez, can you imagine what might be going through his head right now?”

“Sombra,” Satya hisses, fingers faltering in their rhythm at all, “please. We’re here for Hanzo right now.”

“Sometimes you need to asks the hard questions to be there for someone. Do you think surgeons feel guilt about their job when they cut people open? Even if it might cause pain they’re _helping_.”

“I just panicked, I don’t know. It was a big step,” he mumbles. 

“Do you think that maybe inviting him to your home was, like, a physical representation of inviting him into your heart?” Sombra asks.

“What?”

“Well, we all consider our homes our sanctuaries, y’know? It’s like inviting him to see a piece of you, of course it’s nerve-wracking. Satya was the same when she asked me over for the first time, but the fact that she let me in made me know that she cared about me.”

“Sombra,” Satya’s voice has gone thick, and Hanzo cracks an eye open to peer at Sombra.

“He probably understands that it was a big step for you, especially given your history.” He watches as she shrugs, jostling the sleeve of one of Satya’s shirts off her shoulders—the exact one he knew Fareeha gave her after her trip to Canada. “When he comes again in the morning just talk to him. Tell him how you feel.”

“Have you ever considered being a therapist?”

“Me?” Sombra looks at him then, before bursting into laughter, Satya reaches out a free hand to steady her as she sways dangerously on his ottoman. “I’d be bad at it.”

“You just said—“ 

“Oh, _that_ ,” she snorts and tosses her hair over her shoulder, “I was WikiHow-ing your problem while you had your face buried in my girlfriend’s leg.”

Hanzo scowls at her, and presses his face back against Satya’s leg. “Talk to me about something else.”

“Did I ever tell you how I met Sombra?” Satya asks. Hanzo shakes his head against her leg, and he doesn’t need to see her to know she is smiling. “It’s a long one, so try not to fall asleep.”

“I’ll do my best.” 

“It was a long time ago, back when I had just started working with Vishkar. I was about a month into my job when I had a visitor asking about my work with hard-light constructions and projections in general.”

“That visitor was me. Ah, to be young again,” Sombra sighs.

“She was very insistent on learning, going as far as to threaten me to get what she wanted. I wasn’t allowed to divulge that information, but I saw something in her I admired; she had a thirst for knowledge, one that mirrors my own, she was also very cute.”

“Was?”

“Is.” Satya corrected. “I told her some information, only enough to ensure she’d be back again to get more when she’d run into problems. And from there she came back monthly, at first to ask more questions, and then she just started to pop up for social reasons. After a while I decided I wanted to be free to do my own work, to have my own thoughts, and Sombra helped me with that.”

“It wasn’t just me who leaked those e-mails, you know,” she chimed.

Hanzo snuffled softly. “When did you know?”

“Know what?”

“You were in love?”

“Right away,” Satya murmurs, “there was no right or wrong time to say it; I just said it when it felt right.”

“When did it feel right?”

“When Sombra showed me her work; it was a physical representation of someone who really listened to me for the first time, of someone who really took my words to heart. I knew that she was ‘it’, and I hope that I’m her ‘it’ too.”

Sombra makes a choked noise, and Hanzo’s body rocks with the force of her launching against the couch. The hand in his hair leaves, and he can hear the soft sounds of their kissing in the silence of the room. 

“Of course you’re it, mi vida. You always were and will be.”

\--

Hanzo isn’t surprised when he wakes up in his bed to an empty apartment. His phone flashes from where it sits on nightstand, proudly displaying the time as 7:38am; he unlocks it slowly, finger tracing the pattern absentmindedly as he chews on his thumbnail. 

A text from McCree stares back at him. 

_startin 2 cook b ovr soon_

Hanzo scowls at the jumble of emojis that follow, and quickly types out his reply.

_Need to shower first. Come over at 8:30?_

He yawns, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and standing. He barely makes it out of his room when he feels his phone vibrate in rapid succession.

_c u @ 830_  
_do u like maple syrup_  
_w8 dumb q who doesnt_

Hanzo rolls his eyes, and goes through his morning routine; he carefully measures out water for coffee—for _two_ , he reminds himself—choosing the only two matching mugs in his cupboard, takes an anti-inflammatory Angela prescribed for him and washes it down with a box of gummy vitamins that Fareeha had left in his apartment, and starts going through the motions his physiotherapist recommended for him.

He’s interrupted mid-stretch by his phone ringing, and he almost knocks it off the counter in his haste to reach it.

“Shimada,” he says into the phone, tone clipped and professional.

“At ease, darlin’.” McCree’s familiar drawl filters through, and he hates how much he misses his voice. _God_ , he feels pathetic, he just saw the man last night. 

“McCree? Why aren’t you calling from your cellphone?”

“Had to pop over to Angela’s to get some buttermilk, I’m using her landline,” Hanzo can hear the faint sound of Angela saying hello in the background. “How’d you know it wasn’t my cell? Do I have a special ringtone?”

“If I said yes would you let me hear the end of it?”

“Probably not.”

“Then no.” Hanzo pauses. “Is everything okay? Why did you call?”

“Not happy to hear my voice? I’m hurt.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I was just wondering if I could pop down a little early, don’t want to get the pancakes cold, y’know?” 

Hanzo checks the time, and startles when he sees it’s 8:10. “I haven’t showered yet.”

“Are you worried I might say you stink? Hate to break it to you, but, everyone stinks to me. I just happen to think you smell the best. Plus, Angie’s fixin’ to kick me out after I caught Fareeha slinking out this morning.” McCree exhales directly into the receiver. “What I meant is: no pressure, I can wait till you’re done showering.”

He should say no, insist he should shower first—not even _Genji_ had ever been around him when he hasn’t showered, appearances for the Shimadas were everything. 

“Come over,” he finds himself saying instead, “I want to see you.”

“Really?” 

“The door’s open, let yourself in when you get here.” 

“O-Okay, yeah,” he hears McCree’s laughter, bright and unrestrained, “thank you.”

“I—You’re welcome?”

“See ya in a bit.”

\--

McCree opens his door just as he finishes pouring out their coffees, grinning like a madman from behind a large Tupperware container. The sides have fogged up, no doubt from the steaming pancakes within.

McCree’s nose twitches, and he lets out a small sigh. “Is that coffee I smell?” 

“Really? That’s the first thing you say?” Hanzo remarks, smiling at McCree over the rim of his mug. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’,” McCree returns. He pokes his tongue out as he balances himself on one foot, using the other to ease his boot off, before using it to shut the door. “Oh, please continue to stand there and watch me as I hold all this delicious food and struggle to remove my shoes.”

“What can I say, I love a meal and a show.”

“I’ll get boot prints all over your fancy house, Shimada, don’t tempt me.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Hanzo hisses, the mere threat enough to spring him into action.

“I dare.” The words have no heat, though, and Hanzo smiles at him as he crosses the room.

He gratefully accepts the Tupperware passed into his hands and eases the lid off; a cloud of steam comes out, followed by the most heavenly scent of _breakfast_ he’s ever had grace his sinuses. 

“You want me to leave the room so you two can get acquainted?” McCree asks, amusement colouring his words.

Hanzo grunts, brain still overwhelmed by the smell to string together a coherent sentence. 

“You gonna lead me into your kitchen or is this a free-for-all kinda thing.”

“You might have to pry this food from my dead hands.”

“I’ll make it quick and painless,” McCree intones, placing a hand over his heart.

“Enter at your own risk,” is all Hanzo says over his shoulder, already making a beeline for his counter. McCree trails after him, his eyes scan the room as he moves, fluid and natural, almost as if it were his own home. Hanzo envies his level of confidence, but can tell by the slight pinch of his mouth he is just as anxious as he was last night.

“D’ya wanna talk first or should we eat?”

Hes shrugs, setting the Tupperware down and turning to grab plates; having his back to McCree helps him hide the fear that rises, acidic and heavy, in his throat. “Both?” 

“Yeah,” is all McCree says, and Hanzo hears him slurp obnoxiously loud on his coffee as he carefully eases out two dishes. “Sleep well?”

“Yes, did you?” Hanzo asks, turning in time to catch a tired look on McCree’s face as he sets the plates down, it’s quickly replaced by his trademark grin. 

“Can’t complain,” is all he says. “Where do you keep your forks?”

“Bottom right drawer.”

McCree shuffles over, careful to give Hanzo room, and eases the drawer open; he plucks out two knives and forks, and lets out a laugh as he holds them in front of his face. “Smiley forks?”

“Make fun of me all you want,” Hanzo scowls, snatching them from his hand and placing them on the island beside the plates, “they’re adorable.”

“Satya give you them?”

“Yes, and she checks my drawer to make sure I haven’t thrown them out.”

McCree looks up from where he is serving them pancakes with the offending cutlery. “Jeez, remind me to never let her give me a present.”

“It’s already too late,” Hanzo laments, “you’ve already got a personalised gift list for every major holiday and life event.”

“I don’t know whether I’m flattered or scared. ‘m leaning towards a mix of both. Scattered? Flared? Ain’t those already words?”

“Are you asking me if scattered and flared are actual words?” Hanzo asks, voice carefully deadpan.

McCree winces. “Yes?”

“I cannot believe I am in love with an idiot,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face before slapping it over his mouth.

McCree stares at him, the stack of pancakes he’s balancing on the edge of two knives wavering ever-so-slightly. “You what now?”

Hanzo swallows and removes a shaking hand from his mouth, shaking his head at McCree in lieu of actually responded for fear of incriminating himself further. 

“Han,” McCree’s voice sounds more like a whine—Hanzo watches in mute horror as he loses his grip on the knives, cutlery and pancake clattering to the granite alike—“please, just, repeat what y’said.”

“You’re an idiot.”

McCree laughs, the sound thinner than a reed. “Y’know what I mean. Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m in love with you,” the words come out in a rush of air, almost like it was punched out of him. They stare at each other, and Hanzo opens his mouth again, “I love you, Jesse McCree.”

It gets easier every time he says it, so, he says it again, and again, and again; repeating it until his lungs burn for air and it doesn’t even sound like _words_ anymore. Across from him McCree is just staring at him with wide eyes, hands trembling minutely from where they are still in midair. 

“Say something,” Hanzo says, then, terrified with the lack of response from him. He lets outs a frustrated noise, and reaches across the span of the island to take McCree’s hands in his. 

His touch breaks the floodgate of whatever McCree was keeping inside; the man all but rips his hands out of Hanzo’s, he takes a deep, whole body breath, and takes less than two steps to loop around to his side of the island and manhandles Hanzo’s stiff frame onto the counter. 

McCree places his arms on either side of him and settles between his knees, effectively boxing him in, and Hanzo is all at once overwhelmed by how much love he has for this man. This stupid, hairy, wannabe cowboy who owns Shania Twain CDs, _multiple_ pairs of spurs (“They’re all for different moods, Hanzo, like a mood ring but cooler. Do you think they make spurs that change shape and colour with the wearer’s mood?”) and has a Netflix queue full of spaghetti Westerns. He almost laughs at the thought.

They’re eye to eye and Hanzo can see the frantic movements of McCree’s across his face, almost like he is cataloguing every detail to memory, before he leans in; the hands on either side of him come up to gentle cup his face, Hanzo almost cries at the softness of the touch, it’s almost like he’s afraid Hanzo will just disappear between his fingers. 

“I love you, Hanzo Shimada. I love you so goddamn much,” he whispers. He lets out a choked sob as soon as the words leave his trembling lips, he drops his hands to grip Hanzo’s sides, pressing his face into the crook of Hanzo’s neck. 

Hanzo’s arms wrap around him, tugging them until their close enough that Hanzo thinks their bone marrow might be mixing. “I love you.”

It makes McCree cry harder, the sound so broken and jarring within the confines of the kitchen. “I was so scared,” he hiccups, body shaking hard enough that his voice shakes with it, “I thought I messed it up or—or I had fucked it up last night or somethin’.”

“ _No_ , you could never fuck it up with something like that,” the sharpness in his voice shocks him. “That was me just being scared to confront my feelings.” 

“Wanted t’say it sooner,” McCree says, his hands tighten and loosen rhythmically from where they have his shirt in a death grip. He thinks it’s his imagination that causes him to hear the sound of tearing fabric. “Should’ve said it sooner.”

Hanzo says nothing, merely lets him hold onto him like a lifeline and doing so in turn. McCree stops shaking after a while, breath evening out, and he releases him and makes to pull away, face carefully hidden behind a curtain of hair; Hanzo doesn’t let him, if anything his legs tighten their hold on his waist. “Jesse…”

“Sorry,” his voice is thick, almost as if he is talking around something in his mouth. “I need t’clean up a bit and y’got snot all over your shirt too.”

“Bathroom is the first door on your left around the corner,” he murmurs. 

He lets him go then, body cold from the loss of him. Jesse does his best to hide it, but Hanzo sees the faint shimmer of glow of his eyes. He stares down at his hands as he hears Jesse retreat, stomach feeling distinctly like he’s in freefall, and digs his nails into the palm of his hand, the pain grounds him in the present, reminding him this is really and truly happening. He sits there, mind racing on why he feels so horrible, before he swears and hops off the counter onto shaky legs and racing around the corner.

He jams his foot in just as McCree makes to shut the door. He hisses in pain, and McCree looks at him, eyes red and unfocused.

“Don’t.”

“I—”

“Whatever horrible thoughts you are thinking right now, don’t.”

Jesse swallows, refusing to meet his eyes, and relents with a release of the doorknob to allow Hanzo to slip in and shut the door behind him. 

“Sit,” is all he says. At the lost look on Jesse’s face he guides him to sit on the edge of his bathtub. 

He sits obediently while Hanzo grabs a facecloth and wets it with warm water; Hanzo marvels at how young and scared he looks sitting there before taking Jesse’s chin between his fingers and pressing the cloth over his face. 

“You’re guilty right now because you feel like you just lost control in the kitchen.” It’s not a question, but if it were, the deafening silence is more than enough of an answer. 

He winces when Hanzo tilts his head and drags the cloth over his lips, disturbing an already healing cut on his lower lip. It looks like he’d bitten cleanly through it. 

“You didn’t lose control, Jesse, showing emotion like that isn’t a loss of control. Obviously, you,” he shrugs, at a loss of words, “ _wolf out_ when you experience a sudden onset of them. That isn’t something you can control to begin with, it is automatic, like crying.”

Jesse says nothing, but maintains eye contact as Hanzo finishes the job. Hanzo smiles at him, and when he returns his own watery one—teeth looking as blunt and human as his own—his lips wobble ever so slightly. He pushes off McCree’s folded knees and stands, an air of finality settles over the room as he turns to the basin. With shaking hands, he holds the dirtied cloth and rings it out, watching as the water and blood swirl down the drain; he wishes that what he’s feeling right now, this deep-rooted fear that the ground is going to fall out from under him and take everything he loves with it, would go with it

(It’s the same feeling that had settled over him after Genji, the same movements of ringing out a blood-soaked cloth. Hanzo can almost imagine what it would look like: McCree lying in a puddle of his own blood, Hanzo’s hands covered with it. It’d be a mission gone wrong, and of course he’d be the one to have to put him down, Angela didn’t have the spine too, everyone else wouldn’t want to meddle in their affairs. He wondered if he’d be successful this time, if the time with Genji was just practice for his arrow to hit the true mark.)

“Han,” McCree murmurs.

Hanzo grunts, so absorbed with his struggling to ring out the rest of the water and blood staining the washcloth, that he jolts when McCree’s hand settles over his. It’s amazing how much the other hand, the one not steadied by McCree’s warm, very much so alive one, is trembling. 

“Look at me, Han.”

He does, and the breath he was holding comes out all at once. Jesse is looking at him with a heavy and concerned gaze, it was just like Genji had looked at him (it was late, Hanzo had asked him to meet him there, said something about planning a small ceremony to mark ten years since their mother’s passing, but when Genji had seen the fear in his eyes, he had given him the same look, so full of unconditional love and worry for someone who didn’t deserve it— _never does or will_.) His mind blanks and he brings in another quick, heaving breath before exhaling just as rapidly, almost like with each breath he can erase the image of the dead McCree that’s burned itself into his eyelids or at least breathe life into it. 

Jesse’s eyebrows knit when he pieces it together, and he tugs Hanzo against his chest, placing the soaked hand against his breast and dips his head so his lips are by Hanzo’s ears. “Just follow my breathing, baby. Don’t do the thinking, Hanzo, just copy it.” 

His voice is low and even, and Hanzo shuts his eyes against the tears that’ve already started to fall. Jesse says nothing, merely holds him against him and breathes calm and sure into his ear while his hearts beats slow and steady against his palm. He does his best to mirror it, but every few breaths it catches in his throat and ratchets back up again. He feels a hand run along his spine when it does, the fingers are splayed wide and trail over each muscle and soothing out the kinks they find.

Hanzo goes boneless against him, breath steady despite the jackrabbiting of his heart, and McCree stays as steady and patient as an old oak. If Hanzo wasn’t sure of his love before, he’s completely and utterly sure of it now. 

“What’s going through your mind right now,” McCree asks, the words barely filter in through the dreamlike trance he’s in.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay that y’don’t,” McCree murmurs, “we aren’t expected to know everything a hundred percent of the time. Something y’should know a hundred percent of the time’s that I’m here for you. This caring thing goes both ways.”

“Okay,” his voice sounds small and vulnerable to his own ears. A wash of shame goes over him.

“Don’t be ashamed. We all need someone t’take care of us. Let me do it for you.”

“I don’t need anyone,” he responds automatically.

“You do,” McCree says matter-of-factly, “and that’s okay too.” There’s a beat of silence. “If it’s any consolation, I need you too.”

He says nothing, merely let’s himself be held in the middle of his bathroom.

 

\--

They inevitably migrate to Hanzo’s bedroom thanks to McCree all but carrying him there after he remarks that he’s tired; thankfully the fog over his brain leaves the minute they step over the threshold of his room, and he manages to detach himself from McCree. The atmosphere feels lighter, like none of this ever happened, but when he turns to McCree the earlier tension settles on his brow.

McCree’s quiet from where he stands vigil at the doorframe, and Hanzo gestures him in. McCree’s face remains carefully blank, changing only when he’s within arms distance and Hanzo holds out his hands. McCree takes them in his own, and smiles shyly down at Hanzo. 

“Take your clothes off.”

“Uh,” McCree says, his hands loosen their grip on Hanzo’s before releasing them altogether. He uses one to rub the back of his neck while the other hangs limply at his side, “pardon?”

Hanzo flushes. “Take your clothes off so I can give you pajamas.”

McCree looks like he’s going to protest, but shucks his clothes off, placing them carefully in Hanzo’s outstretched hands. He looks confused standing there in his room in nothing but boxer briefs and socks with little cowboy hats on them, and Hanzo admires his restraint as he places the clothes on his dresser.

“Guess I chose a good day to wear underwear.”

“Jesse.”

“Sorry, babe.”

He digs through his drawers, and shoves a shirt and ratty pair of shorts into McCree’s hands with more force than necessary.

“Your turn,” McCree says, eyes glittering with mischief. 

“As you wish.”

“Oh, Han,” he drawls, lips pulling into a smirk, “I _do_.”

McCree cackles at the look on his face, and Hanzo tosses his shirt at the still-laughing McCree. 

“Take your pants off!” McCree crows. Hanzo has to fight the urge to strangle him; he half figures McCree would _like_ it.

“Put your clothes on and lie on the bed,” he barks, doing his best imitation of his father. 

McCree lets out a rumble, and almost breaks his ankle in his haste to dress before diving onto Hanzo’s bed giving. He sighs, and savours the peace it brings to finish undressing and put on his own pajamas. He makes to tidy his clothes up when McCree grunts and reaches out to wrap a hand around his wrist.

“Leave it.”

“Why?”

“It’ll still be there when we wake up.” 

“You make it sound like I won’t smother you in your sleep for your behaviour.”

“At least it’s you doing it,” McCree murmurs, “come to bed, love.”

Hanzo relents and McCree releases him so he can slip under the covers, he can feel McCree lying stiffly behind him and sighs. 

“You don’t have to be as stiff as a board all night, Jesse, get comfortable.”

“I’m _always stiff_ for you.”

“Shut up.”

McCree laughs, but Hanzo can feel McCree settling and getting comfortable, and he does the same, wiggling on his side of the bed to find that perfect spot. The perfect spot ends up being the middle of the bed spooned by McCree, their legs tangling together and an arm across his middle, warm and secure. 

“If y’wiggle anymore I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Hanzo flushes. “Just keep your hands above the belt.”

“O’course.”

“And no inappropriate comments.”

“Noted.”

“You should know I kick in my sleep.”

“Mhm.” 

“A-And—”

McCree makes an annoyed noise. “D’you wanna sleep on the couch?”

“Sorry.” He sighs when he feels McCree settle against him again. “I love you.”

“Love you too, but I’ll still kick you out if you don’t shut up.”

Ever the quick learner, Hanzo gets with the program, and this time, doesn't have to rely on his imagination to experience what it'd feel like to fall asleep next to Jesse.


End file.
